


Who you turn to when you can't stand the dark

by Lenore



Category: Fringe
Genre: Episode Related, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2008-11-05
Updated: 2008-11-05
Packaged: 2017-10-03 18:06:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20839
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lenore/pseuds/Lenore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What's real and what isn't has never been a more difficult question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Who you turn to when you can't stand the dark

Olivia has never been a sound sleeper, and she jolts awake at the noise. She listens, staring up at the ceiling. There it is again, a soft rustling that's not the blinds being batted by the wind or the house settling or any of the other familiar nighttime sounds. She reaches into the bedside drawer for her Glock, slips out of bed, creeps silently down the hall.

In the kitchen, the refrigerator door is flung open, and John stands in the vee of artificial light, head bent as he searches inside, making himself right at home.

He glances back over his shoulder. "I'm making a sandwich. You want? There's corned beef." He pulls out the platter, smiles. "Your favorite."

"You're not really here," she says, her voice scratchy, throat aching. "You're just in—" She brushes her temple with her fingers.

John shakes his head, smiling faintly as he unscrews the lid of the mustard jar. "That's Walter talking. You don't believe that."

He slices the corned beef thin and slathers the mustard on thick, the way he always liked it, a little pucker of concentration between his eyebrows, so very _him_. It hurts her to see it.

"What do you want?" she asks softly.

He sets down his sandwich and comes closer. She swears she can feel the warmth of his body, can catch the scent of his skin.

"Just for you to believe me." He fixes his eyes on her earnestly.

Olivia drops her gaze.

"Liv," his voice goes lower. "You really think I'd betray you? It wasn't me. I'd never do anything to hurt you. Deep down, you know that."

Olivia isn't sure what she knows right now, and she doesn't want to think about it. She starts to back away, and John stops her with a hand on her arm.

"I love you, remember?"

There's time enough to turn her head, refuse the kiss, if she really wants to. His mouth settles sweetly on hers, warm and soft and almost leisurely. He always did like to take his time, wait for her to invite him in. He catches her bottom lip between his, worries it gently, and she closes her eyes, brings her hands up to his face, fingers shaking as she strokes his cheek.

He makes a pleased sound and draws her closer. They stand there kissing in the middle of her kitchen. The faint scent of tomato sauce from dinner lingers in the air and the sharp tang of the mustard that's sitting open on the counter. The clock ticks on the wall, much more quietly than Olivia's heart pounding in her own ears. Outside the stillness is broken only by the occasional whoosh of a passing car. It's so perfectly ordinary. So perfectly what Olivia thought her life would be.

She wrenches out of John's arms, breathing hard. "You're not really here." She turns, but not quite fast enough to miss the stab of hurt that crosses John's face.

He calls after her, "Are you sure you can trust him, Liv? What do you really know about him?"

She stops, turns back to tell him how unfair that is, but he's already gone.

 

Olivia snaps awake, and for a freefalling second, she doesn't know where she is. Then she hears breathing, recognizes the warm body she's curled up against. Her own bed. She lets out her breath, stares up at the ceiling. She's shaking and cold all over, and she doesn't care if Walter is a genius. Residual memories don't explain this.

It's early still, not even dawn yet, but Peter murmurs, stirs. He doesn't sleep any more soundly than Olivia does.

He turns over to her. "Hey." He blinks blearily, and then his forehead creases. "You okay?"

She nods, reaches for him. Their mouths slide together, and it's never a cat-and-mouse game with Peter. He licks at her lips, all straightforward want, and she winds her arms around his neck, pulls him down to her. He kisses her more deeply, and she doesn't mean to cling, to kiss him back like she's afraid he'll disappear.

"Olivia." His voice is soft with concern.

But she doesn't want to talk about it. She just wants—

"Peter. Please."

He props himself up on one elbow and gives her a searching look. She has no idea what he sees, but something like understanding registers in his eyes. He brushes another kiss across her mouth, and then pulls her tank top up over her head, skims her panties down her legs, kicks off his own underwear. His moves against her, bare skin to bare skin, and her belly tightens with excitement. They kiss, and it's hungry, the way it always is between them. She slides her fingers into his hair, uses her nails to make him shiver.

"Olivia," he murmurs against her throat.

She runs her hands up his sides, her fingers tracing the thin scar along his ribs, over his back, soothing the puckered place on his shoulder that could only have come from a bullet. She's seen his file, and it's colorful. But there's still so much she doesn't know about him. When she asks, he just smiles faintly. _It's a long story, but I'll tell you if you really want me to._ Olivia hasn't pressed.

Because the thing is: she's always trusted him. Despite that smirking _sweetheart_ that made her want to knee him in the balls the first time they met. And the _not my problem_ attitude that wasn't all that hard to see through. And the rogue boy-genius facade he still sometimes likes to hide behind. Beneath all that, she knows there's something else, something as solid as bedrock.

She knows him, if not his details.

Peter kisses her breasts, flicks his tongue against her nipple, making her moan. She runs her nails leisurely up his back, and he shivers again. He starts to kiss down her body, and she loves this, loves his mouth and his hands. But she can still feel the ghost of that shaking cold she woke up with, and she needs— She _needs_.

"Please, please." She tugs at his shoulders.

He raises his head, gives her another quizzical look and then another kiss, and reaches into the bedside table. She takes the condom from him, tears the wrapper with her teeth. She strokes his cock, hot and urgent in her hand.

"God," he groans.

She rolls on the condom and murmurs, "Come on. Now. Please."

But he won't be rushed. He brushes kisses to the insides of her thighs, slides two fingers into her.

"You're so wet," he murmurs wonderingly, like he can't believe she wants him this much.

Olivia pulls at his shoulders, and he goes easily, entering her in one long stroke. She whimpers and wraps her legs around his waist. He kisses her everywhere, her neck and face, breasts and lips, as if he's trying to lose himself in her skin. She digs her heels into his back, grips his shoulders, her fingers pressing in, leaving marks, holding on for all she's worth.

"I've got you, I've got you," he murmurs, his breath warm against her ear.

The first time he ever touched her was to keep her from falling. The day Walter implanted the device in her brain for the synaptic transfer, and suddenly the world and everything in it was spinning away from her, and his hands catching her by the arms was the only thing that seemed real.

She holds on to him more fiercely, and he moves faster inside her, and she bucks up into each thrust, wanting more and more.

"Olivia," Peter's voice sounds torn out of him.

He works his hand between their bodies, strokes her clit, working his thumb in perfect, maddening circles. She's shaking and coming apart, and he murmurs in her ear, her name and broken words of endearment. She's hot, so hot, and her eyes fly closed, and her body clenches around him. She bites her lip. Her fingernails sink into his back. And then she's spiraling away, lost and found at the same time.

"Shit," Peter curses softly, and then he's coming too.

Afterwards, Olivia feels as loose-limbed as a rag doll, her hair sweaty, plastered to her cheek. She's too lazy to bother brushing it away. Peter gets rid of the condom, settles back down beside her, slides an arm around her shoulders. She rests her head on his chest, can hear the thud of his pulse gradually slowing back down.

Peter presses a kiss to the top of her head. "You know you can tell me, right?"

"What?"

"Anything."

She thinks: _I don't know why this is true, and I'm not sure I think it's very smart, but everyone has to believe in something, and I want to believe in you. I like to think you won't make me regret it. _

She says, "I know." Tilts her head, kisses him. "We should get some more sleep. We still have a couple of hours before Walter comes to tell us he's been dreaming about rubber ducks again."

Peter snorts a laugh. "If we're lucky." He lets out a little sigh, and his breathing slowly grows deeper, and Olivia feels him drift off.

There's a flash of movement near the door, and she opens her mouth to tell Walter to go back to bed, but it's John standing there. He watches her intently, with something like wistfulness in his expression, and she quickly shuts her eyes. She doesn't want to see it, doesn't want to know.

The world becomes more of a cipher every day, the ground shakier beneath her feet with every step, but there's one thing Olivia knows: Peter is really here.


End file.
